


A Tale of Scarlet; Forbidden Possession and Jealousy

by beauty_love_stardust



Series: A Tale of Scarlet Works [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Biting, Blood and Injury, Canon Rewrite, Canonical Character Death, Consensual Underage Sex, Coping, Dark, Dark Harry, Dark Harry Potter, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, First Love, Forbidden Love, Heavy Angst, I Don't Even Know, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Incest, Love Confessions, Non-Canonical Character Death, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, One Shot, Pain, Painful Sex, Painplay, Porn With Plot, Regret, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sex, Sex Addiction, Sexual Abuse, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, Underage Masturbation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Weasleycest (Harry Potter), What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24263086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust
Summary: Sometimes, he get's jealous and needy ... and every time he does ... I step in and fulfill those needs ...Ginny has always been there for him, even if sometimes, Ron's too jealous to see it.
Relationships: Ginny Weasley/Ron Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: A Tale of Scarlet Works [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1112349
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	A Tale of Scarlet; Forbidden Possession and Jealousy

**Author's Note:**

> _AN: The first page or so of this work has literally sat in my fanfiction folder, ever since I started this account. I am not even kidding. I always intended to write it, but it has sat untouched for years. And then, I just randomly decided the other day to go through that dreaded folder and i started writing and this is what came from that first page. I have always loved Ron and Ginny as a couple and never actually written it on here, before, and this may well be the most triggering Harry Potter thing I've ever written, because the triggers and crap just goes on and on. And I don't know what I was thinking, or why I ended up writing this ... but here you all go! I don't know if I will ever expand on this, or come back to it, again ... but for now it's a one-shot. A few people a long time ago asked for a Ginny/Ron fanfic, welp ... here you go! A day late and a dollar short ... but here it is. Not sure this is quite what you had in mind when you asked, but well ... it's what we all get!!! So Yeah, without further ado, enjoy this wackadoodle work of madness and plzzzzz Don't hate me! And let me know what you think in the comments! O__O_

**_A Tale of Scarlet; Forbidden Possession and Jealousy_ **

* * *

_Yes, I get Jealous,_

_yes, I get possessive, why?_

_because what’s mine is mine_

_and sometimes I think that someone else_

_will steal you away_

_forever…_

* * *

****

He was always the **_jealous_** type. _Always_.

I noticed with _watchful_ eyes throughout years; listening to tantrums regarding **_his_** varied possessions. Little _outbursts_ , and tears when we were **little**.

Jealousy is a _dominant_ factor that drives him, **_easily_**. Being the _youngest_ boy of six brothers, he feels **_unnoticed_**. _Unimportant_ , compared to Percy, and his **vast** knowledge of **_everything_**. And Bill who heralded the others into action for _Mum_ at times.

The only one **_younger_** – the only one he could even **_potentially_** boss about – Is **_me_**.

The **_only_** sister. **_His_** possession.

Experimental kisses upon my lips were, when he _reminds_ me, that, I first **_became_** his.

 ** _His_**. As though I am an **_object_**.

Something _non-human_.

I know _deep_ down he doesn’t **see** me as an object. I’ve seen the _protective_ stance in his eyes. And know he desperately craves something that’s **_just_** his.

He’d wanted to **_kiss_** like Mum kisses _Dad_ , and I was **little**. _Five_ to his **_Six_**. So, I _agreed_.

His stubby fingers had cupped my cheek. His lips that were soft and warm, had dragged **_against_** my own.

_Briskly_ , **teasingly**. **_Lovingly_**.

The act itself had sent _chills,_ tittering up my spine. Caused my _heart_ to speed. I’d wanted **more** the _instant_ he pulled away. Yearned for the _closeness_ it brought – the **_thrill_**.

Just as quickly he’d been pushing me into the grass; _scampering_ back towards the burrow. Laughing, I’d **_followed_**.

I remember it all. So **_clearly_**.

It _continued_ like that …

Soft, **_stolen_** kisses. And as we aged those kisses grew **_more_** determined. More **_frantic_**.

From childhood, I knew what he looked like _between_ his sometimes, **_portly_** thighs. How he would **cry** when we toddled about, when a _stiffness_ would _ignite_ from his boy part.

I remember Mum **chastised** him when he **_touched_** it and **_she_** caught him – when he found _pleasure_ there.

It made us **both** more curious. But also, more **_cautious_**.

We’d started to touch **_each_** other. It was a _dare_. A **whisper** in the shell of ears.

“Bet you **_can’t_** make it throb.”

“Bet I **_can_**.”

I **_always_** won.

But looking back, I suspect he **_wanted_** me to win.

When we touched under clothes my **_skin_** would tingle. My _heart_ would **race** , my body was pure **fire** in a storm that raged. It **_screamed_** echoes, for him.

For **_whatever_** he could provide me.

And he was _always_ such an eager provider of _need_. Of **_lusts_**.

Still **_is_** , actually.

Our siblings and parents didn’t pay close _enough_ attention to what we would **_actually_** do when we fought. They didn’t **recognize** that our fights were actually just _preambles_ to our **_private_** endeavors.

He’d ‘ _steal’_ a toy from my bedroom in the night and **_I’d_** thrash him verbally for it, come **breakfast**. Much to the _chagrin_ of everyone else.

Mom would _scold_ him. Dad would _hide_ behind his daily newspaper. And our siblings would **_roll_** their eyes.

And **_later_** , in the _night_ , when they were all hunkered down and **_sound_** asleep, Ron would sneak himself **_and_** the toy back into my bedroom (as the sole female sibling I was the **_only_** one granted a single) and inch his way into my bed.

The toy would be **_perched_** on my nightstand and he’d _claim_ my lips for his own.

It was a **twisted** habit. Something **_wrong_** , yet _necessary_ between us.

I would twist my fingers into his sky-blue, pinstriped pajamas and draw his lips down to mine.

He would react in **_kind_** , by kissing and melding our succulent things together.

He’d say he was ‘ _owed’_ a kiss, for being the **_devilishly_** , handsome knight that retrieved my ‘ _distressed’_ toy. But the _both_ of us knew, that I **_only_** kissed him, because I _burned_ for it.

He was **_just_** a year older, but he still taught _me_ things.

 ** _Wicked_** things. And I **_let_** him – because I was _curious_ about the curves and edges that were **spaced** under his clothes.

He seemed to know that after that **_first_** day of kisses outside on the lawn, that I would **_never_** be able to _resist_ his stealing them, again.

In **_my_** bed, he’d be _incorrigible_. Expected me to call him ‘ _Master’_ and **_submit_** to his touches, wherever they lingered. Sometimes, I fought _against_ that sentiment. Why **should** I call him **_my_** ‘ _Master’_ when I preferred to be his **_equal_**?

But he was _persuasive_ – he still **_is_** – and it _only_ took a slide of his hand, pushed up between my pulsing sex, to send me **soaring** to new heights and calling him ‘ _Master’_ with each well-placed kiss and **bite** , like he bade me to.

Amidst the scattered memories and various points of _need_ and **gain** , I **_remember_** our first time, together, well.

It was hunkered within the shadows of my bedroom. Perhaps one of the _coldest_ December nights we’d ever known.

I can remember my teeth chattering under the hurdle of blankets, spread over me. Ron had crept into my room, almost as soon as the house **_retired_** to bed – and I knew that even our _Mum_ wouldn’t scold us for bunking up **_together_** due to the _frigidly_ cold temperatures, just outside.

He’d forgone our practically **_daily_** game (by **_that_** point) of stealing a toy to return in the night, that morning, and though I hadn’t thought _much_ of it, I **did** wonder what his excuse was for sneaking in.

There was no _premise_ … no game, per se.

There was just **_us_**.

Just the _temperatures_ , cold enough to freeze **crystals** to the windowpanes, and the **_two of us_** _._

I remember how I nuzzled my nose into his chest in a bid to warm up my face, since The Burrow, had never operated a **_working_** heater, and consequently, we **_all_** froze.

Ron had pushed his body-warmed hands, underneath the edge of my pajama-shirt and brushed little nudges against my _pink_ skin with his thumbs.

I’d _gasped_ at the sensual _feel_ of him. And he’d **_shivered_** against me, in reaction to **_my_** reaction.

This had been _before_ , Hogwarts. When all of our **_other_** siblings were gone to school and we were _alone_ with our days. When Ron was _ten_ and I was **_nine_**.

My reaction had soon thereafter spurned a round of kisses to **_commence_** between us. Our eyes had met. _My_ hazel to **his** murky, ocean blue and I’d seen the languid _desire_ in them – in **_him_**. So, I’d _caved_ and **_bent_** in.

Ron had broken away to kiss at my _neck_ with little trails, catching a huge lungful of air in his chest, whilst he’d **explored**.

And I’d squirmed against his front, and felt the irrefutable **proof** of his _worked-up_ state. His boyhood had been _hard_ and **stiff**. Pointed outward with a small tent in his sleep-pants. One of my hands had reached up to meet that tent, rubbed and tweaked at the **sensitive** thing, until he’d choked out a gasp in desperation.

The next time our _eyes_ met, I saw a distinct **_fire_** burning in _his_.

“ _Gin_ …” he’d whispered in a husky, drawl, a little whine in it from his voice cracking, “I **_want_** to **_possess_** you, _all_ the way … _like_ _Mum_ _and_ _Dad_ **_possess_** _one another_ …”

I didn’t understand what he **_meant_** by those words, in that moment.

I thought he’d meant to be my ‘ _Master’_ again … Drag his hands over my skin and make me **_sing_** for his continued touches, to just the **_right_** spaces …

But that **hadn’t** been what he wanted _that_ time around.

Possession is a concept I’ve battled with _most_ of my life to comprehend. What it **_truly_** means to give oneself over to _another_. What it means to be _possessed_ in return. And how **_jealousy_** all _tweaks_ and **squiggles** into the sordid mix.

I still contemplate what drives Ron to **_need_** to possess, as he does. What makes him need to **_take_**. Need to exist in this in-between, like he **_does_**.

And why did he fixate on **_me_**? Is it _only_ because I’m **_younger_**? Is that truly the _only_ reason? Or is he just **_demented_** …? Are we **_both_** demented …? _Perverted_ … twisted beings of **society** …?

I didn’t think about what he **_meant_** in the moment.

Or how I’d never be able to step _backward_ , once I’d forged a path **_ahead_**.

I just wanted to _please_ him. My sensitive, **_ego-fractured_** , older brother.

“ _How_?” I’d asked in a curious tone, my skin _tinged_ with cold and **starving** for heat.

He’d licked his lips and I’d noted the compelling **swell** of them, so _beautifully_ complementing the blush-pink in the _glossy_ moonlight.

“By letting _me_ be your **_first_** , Gin …” he’d coaxed, “It’s the most **_intimate_** thing two people can be … one another’s _firsts_ …” his hands had nudged and **fondled** my sides as he’d said it, goaded my _inflamed_ , hyper-sensitized skin, “… each other’s **_only’s_**. _Forever_ …” he’d added in.

I had been **_keening_** by this point. Arching my spine, nipples-puckered, cheeks pink, and mind **_thousands_** of miles away from the icy chill in the room.

There had _only_ been him – and this ‘ _intimate act’_ he’d spoken about.

If it could make me feel even a _fraction_ of what I had with his hands **_alone_** , up until that point, then I had already been **_fine_** with it.

 ** _Thrilled_** even.

So, I opened my eyes into his and gave him a little, curved smile.

“Will it make _you_ my Master, forever?” I had asked, reveling **_slightly_** in the frustration that touched his eyes at being made to **_wait_**.

But to _his_ credit, he’d kissed me **rough** on the lips, **_then_** answered, “I’m **_always_** your master, Gin. You’re little, and I’m **_older_** … Your **_big_** brother … so yes, I **am** your master, always.”

I had rubbed at his boyhood again. Tweaked and _flicked_ his throbbing length – and lifted a brow when he’d made searing noises in his throat.

“If I can do **_this_** to _you_ with just a few touches, then ** _I_** should be **_your_** master, if _you_ are **_mine_** ,” I’d taunted, seeking to get a _rise_ out of him.

Ron’s noteworthy **_jealousy_** had immediately spiked and reared its **_ugly_** head in the open. He’d _kissed_ my lips, that time, **_punishingly_** , and dug his nails into my skin until I **squeaked** for him.

When he’d _finally_ withdrawn, I was squeezing my thighs in desperate **_need_** of his touch – I’d learned to **_like_** his rough touches – just as much as his **_gentle_** , eased ones. And damn if he hadn’t **_known_** that, at the time.

“Open your **_legs_** for _me_ , Gin,” he’d ordered, _coarsely_ in my ear.

I’d **obeyed** immediately and _spread_ my thighs, even with my pajama pants and **panties** on, I’d **_burned_** for him – _obeyed_ his desire. And he’d **unlatched** one of his hands from my sides, and pressed his palm roughly down on my **_opened_** crotch.

Even through the **_two_** layers of fabric, his touch had gone _straight_ to my clit – and I’d _lurched_ for him. Pointed my hips and _ground_ against his palm in a whinny, **_frenzied_** need, until my **_juices_** soaked through **_both_** layers, _dampening_ my crotch. He’d let me _work_ myself against him, let me **_lose_** myself in my needs, **_just_** to prove his point. He **_is_** my master and **_he_** had **_none_**.

I’ll **never** forget his cocky smile and slanted eyes. I’d been his _prey_ and he’d been the **_Cheshire Cat_**.

“It’s not **_fair_** …” I’d whined, when he’d retracted his palm and I was _left_ with a trenchantly **_spread_** dampness in the **seat** of my pants.

“It doesn’t **_need_** to be fair,” he’d countered and I’d scoffed, with a roll of my eyes. His expression had turned _serious_ , though, and eyes _still_ burned like **_fire_**.

“Promise me that you **_won’t_** touch anyone else … won’t **_kiss_** anyone else … you’re **_mine_** , Gin! You’re **_just_** gonna be, mine! And **_this_** is ours … _kisses_ and **_touches_** are **_ours_** …” he’d reiterated, with a harshness that had me _quivering_.

“ ** _Fine_** , Ron … I’ll be _yours_ like **Mum** is **_Dad’s_** …” I’d finally given in and _promised_ him.

And I’d seen his mouth twist into a **relieved** smile. His eyes had calmed _considerably_ , and he’d kissed my swollen pout again, with his **own** reddish mouth.

“You **_won’t_** regret it, Gin …” he’d sighed in a loving manner. “it’ll feel **_so_** good … I _promise_ …” he’d quipped and I’d moaned into the _little_ caresses and rubs he’d given my sides and thighs.

“Show me **_how_** …” I’d whispered, suddenly turned meek and mild, because I didn’t _know_ how to do what he **_wanted_** me to.

And he’d been all the _more_ eager to **show** me.

He’d helped me out of my _clothes_ , and I’d helped _him_ out of his. The room had still been **_freezing_** , but it had been warm _enough_ under the covers with our combined body-heat. I’d gasped when I felt him **naked** against me, for the **_first_** time.

Before that point, we’d _only_ ever touched _under_ or **over** our clothes. He’d always slinked his hand under my waistband and gotten me off, while I whispered that he was my ‘ _Master’_ into his ear. It was **_all_** we’d **_had_** , before _that_ night.

But it would _quickly_ become our shared past – and **_not_** our future.

I remember how he’d _clamored_ over me, with his elbows curved helping to support his weight. His swelled rod, _throbbing_ and leaking against my **sex** , with this intoxicating expression of **_want_** , written into his pupils.

“Gin, **_Blimey_** … You’re so _bloody_ beautiful …” he’d whispered and I’d flooded red in the cheeks, and felt like all the **air** had gone from my bedroom.

“And you’re _handsome_ … like **_Dad_** …” I’d seen something **flitter** in his eyes, maybe **_another_** kind of _jealousy_ – but it had been **_gone_** almost as fast.

He’d slid down his hands, _sprawled_ open my thighs and directed his **engorged** stiffy, right down to my entrance. I’d _never_ understood what that hole was **_before_** that night. **_He_** taught me what it was for. **_Ron_**. With his _possessive_ , all-together **jealous** nature, and _overbearing_ tenacity.

I’d felt his foreskin _slide_ against my walls – and he’d **_entered_** me.

His boyhood had been **small** and _stiff_ – which mirrored my own _tight_ , **petite** body. And he’d glided right in with _little_ persuasion. And it had _felt_ … felt like **_heaven_** – like **_electricity_**.

And I’d **wanted** to scream for him.

But I’d **_known_** Mum and Dad might hear.

So _instead_ , I’d lifted my arms and **_clung_** to him, for _dear_ life.

I’d pushed my **face** into his neck and cried my _elation_ into his skin.

But the pleasure had had an almost **caustic** and _rancorous_ effect on him. Because within _seconds_ he’d altered from **needy** to **_rowdy_**.

His fingers had _pawed_ my flesh and sought to **maim** and _mark_ me with bruises of **_ownership_** , while his lips and _teeth_ had bit and _clashed_ with my skin. Leaving teeth marks **infused** in my neck and shoulders – while his hips had **strived** to fuck me _deep_ into my mattress, inciting squeaks from my bedsprings with every **debilitating** rut.

Pleasure and pain had mixed and _stirred_ so profoundly deep in my senses, that I didn’t know **_how_** to react – or how to **_feel_** – but I knew it felt like _torturous_ bliss.

Perhaps it was sick that I was made **explicitly** more aroused by his rabid, dog-like treatment of my skin. But I couldn’t quite **_help_** it.

He’d **_trained_** me to be that way, since _long_ before that first night.

And I shuddered and **quivered** this way and that on the sheets of _his_ bed, enticed by his touch. Reveling in **_every_** lurch of his hips and punishing _dig_ of his fingers.

He’d been almost like a **_wild_** animal. Primed and _ready_ to take and be a true **_master_** of his _possession_. And it **_wasn’t_** delicate and gentle, but it **_was_** ours.

Pure and _simple_ – it’s **_always_** been ours.

I remember the drive of his hips, met the _curve_ of my mound in _just_ the proper position, so that his pelvis **nudged** my clitoris with every jut inward. Those ruts had been so **_stimulating_** , so forceful by nature, that I’d arched my back and **_shuddered_** with my release for him.

I’d only ever **known** release on his fingers – felt the little pulses and _judders_ when he thumbed me or rubbed and **_ground_** me on his palm … but _that_ night, I knew it for the first time, with his whole **_body_** working me.

The bruises I’d carried for over a **_week_** after, but in that moment, I’d not **_minded_** , them.

I’d only wanted to meet _new_ heights, new **_titillating_** heights!

And Ron **_hadn’t_** disappointed.

I remember how after a time of those forceful, **_aggravated_** ministrations, he’d stilled on top of me, made a **low** cry into my neck and spurted hot liquid up _inside_ of me. I remember how I’d **felt** , filled to the brim with my big brother’s essence, and cradled in his strong, **_punishing_** arms – and I’d been _lost_.

Lost in a salacious **_mess_** of heat and color.

 _Light_ and **_darkness_**.

And I wasn’t _cold_ anymore. I don’t think I would have noticed if I was, anyway.

Not with what Ron had just _stirred_ in me … he’d _ignited_ this **_fire_**.

And I didn’t know how to _not_ want it, after that.

He’d laid with me **after**. Caught his breath, while I’d tangled my legs with _his_ legs and laid my head on his chest in order to listen to his **beating** heart – and I’d wondered then, how he knew what he knew.

“Where did you **_learn_** that?” I’d asked him.

I hadn’t been **_jealous_** – not like **_him_** , but I _was_ curious.

Sweat-soaking his hair, and breath **_catching_** in his lungs, he’d dozily stared down his nose at me, let out a **chuckle** in his throat.

“I found a filthy _mag_ in Fred and George’s room. Detailed quite a **_bit_** of Mum and Dad stuff in it,” he’d admitted, while he brushed _trembling_ fingers up and down the span of my back, “I’ve **wanted** to try it on you for _weeks_ , now …”

I’d shuddered, noticeably, with **dark** lust in my eyes. “You’ll do _more_ … of those **_dirty_** things with me, Ron?” I half-asked, half pleaded – and he’d _smiled_.

“Only if you **beg** for me … like a **_good_** little sister, like an obedient **_wife_** should …” his tone had turned **_throaty_** , and I’d blushed rosy-red from the thrill.

It was the **_first_** time he’d referenced me as **_his_** wife.

The first time of **_countless_**.

“ ** _Wife_**? Does that make _you_ my husband?” I’d countered, evenly.

He’d reddened to the _tips_ of his ears, then rolled his shoulders.

“You’re my **_first_** … and you _promised_ to be my **_only_** … so _eventually_ won’t that make you my **_wife_** …?” he’d asked and I’d _pondered_ that.

“Yes … I suppose it does,” I’d answered simply, coaxing a smile from him.

It was so _simple_ then. The **_pondering_**.

Things were _black_ and **white**. _Up_ and **down**.

If we were **_eternal_** – if he was my **only** , **_forever_** … then _eventually_ we’d be **married**.

We’d **_belong_**.

We were _Adam_ and **Eve**. **Bonnie** and **_Clyde_**.

That was the **simplest** it’s _ever_ been.

And for a _long_ time after that **first** night, things were just **_that_** simple.

Our days were _continuously_ spent with our parents cluelessly, **chastising** our fights, while our nighttime’s consisted of us _kissing_ and **rutting** until I _swore_ my body might have really been unearthed **_just_** for his eyes and _hands_ to explore.

He’d made it so that I **_only_** felt whole, when I was tucked and braced in **_his_** protective arms. He’d opened up **windows** that I could never hope to _shutter_ again. And he’d _reveled_ in the sole possession of my soul – my _ample_ , limber bodice.

When our siblings had returned _home_ for the summer, he’d been **_more_** on edge.

He’s _always_ been more on edge when it **comes** to them. They take **whatever** they please from him. His _toys_ , **clothes** , _shoes_ , **_possessions_** … they’ve always made him feel _small_ and **_worthless_**.

So, when _they_ are present, he’s **_harder_** to appease.

I’d learned that, though – even **_then_**.

Even when I was _ten_ and he was **eleven** , preparing for his very **first** year of Hogwarts.

That summer, we’d been **_inseparable_**.

Fred and George had stolen one of his _favorite_ toy trains and _snapped_ it in half. Rather than **tattle** to Mum (who honestly **_didn’t_** pay attention) he’d _stormed_ into my room, wrestled _me_ to the **floorboards** , and _taken_ me _rough_ and **_hard_**.

I’d called him ‘ _Master’_ with a little **hum** and let him **_take_** – because he’d **_needed_** it.

Because **_I’d_** needed it, too … but mostly, because of that _tortured_ frustration that was all **_murky_** in his **_eyes_**.

And secondly, because I hadn’t **wanted** to forego a single instant I **_could_** spend in his arms, when that coming school year would separate us, for the **_first_** time in our lives, and I’d known how **_aggravated_** even _that_ little tidbit had made him.

I was his _stress relief_. Without me, he’d have no one.

 ** _Nothing_**.

And I’d _understood_ …

I’d latched on to that stringent **_fear_** in his heart, with a _penchant_.

I’d wanted to fix it for him. But I **_couldn’t_**.

And the **night** before he boarded the Hogwarts express with ‘ _The’_ Harry Potter in tow, I’d let him take in the most _brutal_ , physically **_untamed_** , yet somehow strikingly **_raw_** and **beautiful** manner, that he’d **_ever_** done so before.

I was bruised for **_two_** weeks, _after_.

But I’d **_never_** screamed into his shoulder, _louder_ than I had **that** night. And I don’t think I ever **_have_** since.

I’d been **_unable_** to contain myself, despite how I’d **_tried_** , and I’d known that had been the cause of a _huge_ ego-boost for him. Because when he’d hugged me **_goodbye_** , the _following_ morning, I’d felt his muscles **squeeze** in a possessive stance that had my heart _skittering_ a beat.

I’d wanted to **_sneak_** aboard the Hogwarts Express with him and _tuck_ into one of the compartments so that they’d have to take me along.

But I’d stayed **_behind_**.

 _Dutifully_ , without him.

That year, had been the loneliest I’d ever known.

By that point, I didn’t know **_how_** to go a day without my big brother pushed up between my thighs. It had been our days …our nights … our activity whenever Mum and Dad weren’t looking.

I hadn’t understood **_then_** , that he’d made me a **_sex addict_**. More importantly, he’d made me **_his_** sex addict.

My body had **screamed** and thrashed without him to touch and claim it. I’d tried to satiate myself. Slid dainty fingers between my lower pleats, pushed and _pinched_ at my swollen and **antsy** skin, but it had been **_no_** use.

I just **_couldn’t_** find completion in the same way that **_he’d_** found it in _me_ – stroked and **caressed** it in me.

I’d tried **_everything_** , while he was away.

I’d used my fingers, rutted _against_ pillows, stuffed toys, even my mattress … **_nothing_** could emulate Ron.

And I hadn’t quite **_wanted_** it to.

I’d **_wanted_** him.

Meanwhile, he’d write home, to Mum and Dad about the **_fun_** he was having with his _new_ best friend Harry Potter, which **_soon_** became his **_two_** best friends, Harry and Hermione. And it was the first time I’d ever felt _jealousy_ of my own bubble up in my chest.

Because I’d _wondered_ … if I’m **_this_** needy for him, is **_he_** this needy for me? Or is he finding relief with this **_other_** girl? This bushy-haired _nightmare_ he ranted about?

I’d tried **_harder_** to please myself with my fingers, still without **_favorable_** results – and had found _frustration_ built ten-fold when he _announced_ via letter, he **_wouldn’t_** be coming home for the Christmas holidays, but would instead reside at Hogwarts.

I’d wanted to scream and cry. I’d wanted to throw a tantrum, because I’d been so long away from him … that it wasn’t fair.

He hadn’t been being **_fair_**.

But I’d held it **_all_** in. And I’d _waited_.

Eventually, after I’d practically **_burst_** with the _overwhelming_ need for him, the summer breaks had **_finally_** been imparted on us.

Ron had come **_home_** – and I’d _finally_ be off to Hogwarts with him, the **_following_** August.

I’d known, there would be no **_question_** of that.

But in the meantime, I’d taken advantage of Ron’s return. Even if our obnoxious siblings were around, I’d not cared. Nor waited _more_ than an hour after we’d all arrived back home from the train station, to practically **_tackle_** him down to my bed.

And _he’d_ had the _very_ same idea.

“ ** _God_** , Gin … You’ve _no_ idea how much I’ve **_needed_** you …” he’d whispered in a sultry coo against my lips. His voice had been dry and my flesh had been in an all-out, **_reactive_** need for him.

I’d let him strip off my clothes in his hurry to see me bared for him – and I’d nearly torn his in my haste, but we’d somehow managed it without the destruction of our hand-me-down clothes.

My eyes had bore into his and I’d instinctively spread myself open for him to slat himself between my thighs. My hand had gone for his engorged prick, peeled back the foreskin so that I might tease the red-tipped head and he’d hissed through his teeth for me.

“Were you **_faithful_** , Master?” I’d crooned up at him with a daring glint in my eye. It was a warning – my first possessive behavior toward him.

His stare had been one of anguish and the **_promise_** of a coming punishment. Because he’d slapped my hand away and drove his hips up and into my dripping sex without warning.

It’d been _primal_ – and _impactful_ – and **_daunting_**.

His nails had _scraped_ my epidermis until it bled and left his marks everywhere, they rightly could – and his forceful kisses had been another punishment, another **_claiming_** of me.

But eventually, after he’d rutted and **_planted_** his first streaks of seed inside of me – he’d _answered_ my question.

“What do **_you_** think, Gin?” he’d _growled_ out in a husk, “Do _you_ think I’ve not **wanted** to **_fuck_** , while _you_ were out of reach? Cause I **_wanted_** to … but you’re **_mine_** – and we’re each other’s first and last – and **_only_** … or is it _you_ that’s been **_unfaithful_**? Huh?”

I’d never _heard_ such **_foul_** language from Ron’s mouth before. ‘ _Fuck’_ was a word I hadn’t known, **_then_**.

But I’d _liked_ it. The _raw_ , **_piercing_** sound of it.

Especially when it’d came from **_his_** lips – when he’d talked about what **_we_** were doing.

 ** _Fucking_** … We’d **_fucked_**.

And I **_finally_** had a descriptive word for what wasn’t _quite_ **_love_** , but wasn’t quite **_hate_** , either …

It was **_fucking_**.

I’d _groaned_ into his shoulder-blade and kissed the **cusp** of his neck, then bit the ivory skin, inciting **_another_** growl from him.

“ ** _I_** wasn’t the one in _school_ , with a pretty **_girl_** following me around …” I’d countered.

His expression had flitted to one of pure, **_unadulterated_** rage and he’d started to fuck me _deep_ and **_violent_** – until I’d **_cum_** in an almost _endless_ stream of times and forgotten all about **_her_** – and _why_ I’d been **_afraid_** he’d cheated in the first place.

That summer was the **_neediest_** we’ve **ever** been.

We’d spent more time in the **_bedroom_** than in previous times – that is, until _Harry Potter_ didn’t answer **_any_** of Ron’s varied letters.

It led to a point where, he’d snuck off in the night – with our twin brothers aiding him – to go ‘ _fetch’_ Harry, we **_barely_** got even the tiniest bit of alone time after that.

He hadn’t been able to _sneak_ into my bedroom in the night. Not without _Harry_ wondering where he’d gone.

And _another_ , almost unforgivable thing had **_begun_** to happen.

I’d begun to have _impulses_ – **_feelings_** – for Harry.

It wasn’t something I’d specifically _planned_ – I don’t even know **why** it started … I just know that it **_did_**.

I’d begun to **_crush_** on him.

His _smile_. His **_laugh_**. The way his **brilliant** green eyes would _crinkle_ when he was overly **_kind_** to me … and _most_ of all, when he’d **extend** his hand to graze my arm, he was **_gentle_**.

 ** _Favorably_** kind … and I **_felt_** things … _wanted_ things from him that weren’t **fair**. Because I’d **_promised_** Ron – I’d promised it was **_always_** gonna just be me and him.

That I was **_one_** possession he’d never have to **_worry_** about being **_ripped_** away,

I had promised my _faithfulness_ and in my heart I **_wasn’t_** faithful.

And it carried on for **_years_**.

My first year at Hogwarts was an _ample_ blur of **_confusion_** and _frustrations_.

Tom Riddle’s diary not _only_ wormed its way into the **parameters** of my psyche, but had also managed to _stir_ these **_awful_** urges in the pit of my _belly_. I’d needed _satiation_ after each one of the wicked deeds he’d **_force_** me to partake in. My skin had careened with these terribly heated lusts, whenever I’d be controlled by the diary.

Ron had **_reveled_** in my loose mind and _unscrupulous_ mannerisms.

I can **vaguely** remember a time in which, I’d **_let_** him silence his four-poster bed _curtains_ , restrain me with **rope** to the headboard, and fuck me until I’d **_screamed_** to the _heavens_ for him.

He’d believed, at the _time_ , that I’d merely become more **wanton** in my urgencies, because I’d **finally** been at Hogwarts, and **_away_** from the constrictions of our home. He’d never _dreamed_ that the diary I **clutched** so formidably to, was leading me down a **_darkening_** path.

I remember in the hospital wing, after I’d _truly_ sobered from the whole ordeal, that Ron had been there. Clasped tight to my hand, promising that he’d take better **_care_** of me.

He’d look after me **_better_** …

I’d **never** seen him actually _cry_ over me, prior to that night – almost wanted to _bask_ in the moment. But I’d never been the sort to do that, under such circumstances.

Instead, I’d wiped **clean** his tears and stolen a few little kisses from his lips, and invoked a promise of my own from him.

“Promise you’ll let _me_ take care of **_you_** , forever …” I’d whispered, “No matter how **_old_** we get, you’ll give me your _heart_ and your **_soul_** , not just your _need_ and your **_jealousy_** …”

I still **_remember_** the way he looked at me, with his darkened blue eyes, a bit of _damage_ all swirled in and said, “I promise, I’ll **_try_** …” in a simpering little breath.

I’d felt _badly_ for what I’d ask of him when he was **_most_** vulnerable, because I’d had a **double** motive to ask it.

I’d wanted him to give me a _bit_ of his softness and **easing** touches, because of those **_pesky_** budding feelings that I’d still _harbored_ for his best friend. Especially once Harry rescued me from the **chamber**. It was almost this _rumbling_ offshoot of **_needs_** that I had set aside, **_just_** for Harry in the _pit_ of my belly.

It was **_unfathomable_**.

But also, so sinfully, **_right_**.

Ron had spent the next few **_years_** , evening out his jealousy towards his _elder_ siblings to a **marked** degree. That wasn’t to say that he **_hadn’t_** still pinned me to the walls and **_taken_** with a fervor **sometimes** , when they _most_ infuriated him, but he had begun to paint **_patterns_** in my skin with an exceptional bit of his _gentle_ side, too.

It wasn’t **_preventable_** , but I’d begun to fall head over heels for **_Ron_** , in a _new_ way.

At least the **_emotions_** he invoked in _me_ , were enough to stave off the **little** flirtations with _Harry_.

I noticed at times; the way _Harry_ would **_stare_** at me. Especially when I went into my _fifth_ year at Hogwarts.

It was like a _little_ switch had flickered to life in him, and he’d started to **_notice_** me and **_touch_** me with _conspicuous_ flutters of his hand.

I’d be _strolling_ at his hip, deep in conversation when **_suddenly_** , his hand would _graze_ my waist, then titter down and **_squeeze_** my side. He hadn’t the **faintest** idea that when he’d _touch_ me, he’d **push** in on a **_bruise_** left by Ron. One of **_many_** marks he still painted, _aggravatedly_ into my flesh.

But I _had_ known that Harry was **_particularly_** cautious, not to even _think_ about offering our _secretive_ , sweeps and grazes to me when we were in _Ron’s_ presence.

I’d suspected Harry _must_ have been **_well_** - ** _aware_** of the ever-slumbering _jealousy_ that resided in Ron, always _promptly_ ready to rear its ugly head in a _moment’s_ notice.

They **_were_** best friends, after all, and Harry had most likely been privy to more than a few of Ron’s outbursts, when I wasn’t around to tamper them with offerings of my **_skin_** as solace.

Up until that point, I’d only ever **betrayed** Ron with my emotions. It was _guilt_ that I’d feel – almost **_untenable_**. And I’d submit to him, call Ron ‘ _Master’_ in his bed at night, then bat eyelashes at Harry in a consorting type-of-way.

Had I known the **_whirlwind_** I’d incite in him.

The _psychological_ downfall … I’d have **_kept_** my promises. I’d never had so much as **smiled** at Harry Potter.

I remember the **_moment_** it all _cracked_ apart.

It was **_a_** moment – a hollow **_frenzy_**. And I’d been as _much_ to blame as **anyone** … **_No_** … I’d been **_all_** to blame.

Harry had _won_ his match. He’d been on **_fire_** – beaming with this _pride_ that I’d never _known_ – and with his **uptick** in pride, came this _surge_ of adrenaline and **_courage_**.

He’d sought me out in the _crowded_ common room of Gryffindors’ and **_crashed_** his lips against mine.

It’d been **_invigorating,_** and **_impulsive,_** and **fiery** – and _public_. Very, **_very_** public.

But in the second, the _instant_ that he’d done it, I hadn’t thought about my nights with Ron, or my promises – or my **_obligations_** – No … I’d just thought about how good it felt to stroke the fire in my belly and _kiss_ The Boy Who Lived, for the entire cheering crowd of rowdy teenagers to see.

His hands had roamed my sides. My skin had bit with fire and I’d grappled with the front of his shirt for _much_ needed support.

Until, we’d **_heard_** it – heard **_Ron_** , more _specifically_.

Disbelief had **sounded** from his throat and **widened** his eyes. There was a _noise_ between a shout and a **_growl_** that I’d never previously heard out of him, but it was an _anguished_ thing … a **_coarse_** thing …

And **_all_** the gathered blood had **_drained_** from my face, when I’d finally drawn away from Harry’s desirable pout to realize what I’d **_done_**.

And I’d **wanted** to **_die_**.

Ron’s eyes had _flashed_ to me and the indescribable depth of **_betrayal_** that refracted in them, is like _nothing_ I’d ever seen before. But it was **_murderous_**. And **_tortured_**. And **_decimated_**.

His _destroyed_ eyes had screamed so much at me, without him having to **utter** a single word in that moment. They’d screamed of his pride, of his jealousy, and most of all … they’d screamed of his irreparable **_devastation_**.

Ron **_hadn’t_** spoken, hadn’t said a **_word_**. He’d reacted, _instead_. Charged the length of the common room at Harry and had him **_wrangled_** to the floor, the pair of them had _punched_ , **kicked** , and **_fought_** each other. And I’d known in that moment, Harry _didn’t_ understand the barrier he’d **uncovered**.

I remember trying to **_pry_** Ron off of him, apologizing _over_ and **_over_**. And I recall the crowd of _amassed_ Gryffindors whom were all wide-eyed, mouth-agape, at the **spectacle** they didn’t quite understand, that had **_unraveled_** right before their _eyes_.

A few of the boys had come _forward_ , then, in order to **pry** Ron from a bloody-nosed, Harry.

Ron’s frustrations had been _finally_ sated – this time, he **hadn’t** laid a hand on **_me_** to do it.

And I remember that last, **_abandoned_** glance, Ron had _shot_ me, before he’d sauntered off to the **opposite** end of the room, far away from _me_ and Harry.

I’d tended Harry because I hadn’t _known_ what **_else_** to do. I had wiped the _blood_ from his nose, pressed a cool **cloth** to his swollen and **_bruised_** face, all while I’d whispered **_soft_** apologizes over and over.

He’d **laughed** it off, because he hadn’t known how **_deeply_** I ached inside. But I’d also known that I couldn’t take back what Ron had **_witnessed_**. I’d known that I could ( _of course_ ) **deny** anything had happened between Harry and I, _before_ that moment, but it wouldn’t have been _strictly_ true, and Ron would have **_seen_** that in my hazel eyes.

And I hadn’t wanted to push **_anymore_** seeds of betrayal underneath his already **_scorched_** skin. I hadn’t wanted to stroke _that_ particular fire; I’d just witnessed in him. There was an ire, I’d never _known_ my frustrated, **_angst-plagued,_** big brother to carry with him.

I _had_ left Harry eventually, though. When I’d been _assuaged_ by my conscience, that he would be alright, in order to make my way through the crowds and seek **_Ron_** out.

I’d stilled in my **tracks** when I had eventually found him, pressed into the bulk of a corner, with Lavender Brown _curled_ around his middle. Lip-locked and kissing **senseless**.

I’d understood even more, **_then_** , the severity of the _burn_ Ron had felt when he saw _me_ with **_Harry_**.

Because it’d been **_my_** turn to feel it, towards **_him_**.

He’d _promised_ that I’d **always** be his _first_ – **last** – **_only_** – same as I’d made that **_fruitless_** promise. And _now_ … now we’d **_both_** broken it all.

Those _stupid_ , **childish** , reassurances to one another.

I’d _wanted_ to _cry_ – and I **_had_**.

I’d wanted to _rip_ Lavender **off** of him and **_scream_** out my lungs at **_Ron_** … but I’d just _stood_ there. **Stunned**. **_Watching_**.

I’d watched him _push_ his hand under her skirt and **tweak** her center until she came over his fingers in a **great** shuddered-out, cry against his _mouth_. I’d even watched as he _opened_ his pants and plunged himself **_inside_** of her cavern, like they _weren’t_ in the damned common room for **_all_** to bear witness to their impeccable _lack_ of **_shame_**.

I’d finally been able to turn _away_ then. Rushed all the way **back** to where I’d left Harry and _wrestled_ my way into his arms, and **over** his lap.

I remember how I’d _even_ , slung my **fingers** through his ruckus of jet-black hair to draw up his head, and **_ordered_** him to _take_ me, **_right there_** … for the **_whole_** common room to see.

He’d been **_so_** turned on by my _demand_ – made so **_hot_** by my fieriness, that he’d done as I **_asked_**. For the first time in my _entire_ _life_ I had been privy to the **_desires_** of a boy that **_wasn’t_** my older brother. And I’d **_forced_** myself to _revel_ in it.

I **_never_** looked away from Harry, but I **_knew_** Ron had _watched_ us. At _some_ point, I’d practically **felt** the _livid_ eyes of my big brother **emblazoned** upon my spine – watching my **hips** jut and _buck_ on Harry’s lap – on his _best friend’s_ lap … his best friend that had just **_claimed_** **_away_** the **_one_** thing that was always _supposed_ to be **_his_**.

And I shouldn’t have felt **_vindicated_** in my _glorious_ revenge – but I **_was_**.

And I’ll **_always_** be sorry for it.

I went without Ron’s touch for so long after **_that_** night, that my emotions had started to sour.

Harry was a dream – **_at_** **_first_** … I’d _finally_ been able to indulge in **tender** acts of intercourse, that _weren’t_ untamed and **merciless**.

I remember the **first** time (after the common room) that I’d _allowed_ Harry to strip off my clothes in order to take in my **visage** for himself, the look in his eyes had been **_damning_**.

Something _questioning_ had been in them. And I’d **peeked** up at Harry with hazel eyes and _blushed_ to the tips of my ears.

He’d **reached** down and _weaved_ his hand across the span of bruises, rubbed and **flicked** my nipples to erection, then finally, leaned in to kiss each of _those_ bruises, better, like one might, for a _child_.

I didn’t **_understand_** the pity that shone in his _eyes_ for me. Because all my life, I’d only ever known _Ron_ and his **punishing** , _bruising_ , **_love_**. I’d come to believe it was **_normal_** , that Harry was just an _exception_ to the rule of ‘ _Masters’_ and ‘ _Lovers’_ but I know **now** that he wasn’t.

Ron was the _oddball_ – the **unconventional** one.

Painting skin with bruises, **_wasn’t_** normal … why _would_ it be?

“ _Ron_ … Ron did **_this_** to you?” it was a question that shocked my heart, because the things behind closed doors with me and Ron, were **_our_** little secret.

I’d _always_ promised him I’d **_never_** tell.

But every _other_ promise had already been **splintered** and broken like china … so I’d thought: ‘ _Why not this one too?’_

I’d nodded, a _tremble_ to my lower pout and gently touched his cheek in a graze, “He was **_my_** **_Master_** and I was _his_ to claim …” I’d tried to **_explain_** to Harry the _complexity_ of what Ron was and what **_I’d_** been in return. But our minds had _always_ been vastly **_different_** – forged together by our **_childhood_** indulgences, Ron’s and mine … and I doubt _anyone_ could **ever** understand what we **_have_**.

What we’ve **_meant_** to each other.

Because it **_isn’t_** normal.

It isn’t **_done_** …

Harry had leaned his head down and _captured_ my lips in a delicate press and when he’d retracted, he’d **spoken** again, “What does that **_mean_**?” he’d asked, a somber line to his mouth.

I remember looking at the _rims_ of his glasses, admiring the **kindness** in his piercing green eyes, and loving **_him_** in that moment. Though not _quite_ so much as I **_loved_** Ron.

I’d lifted my _hand_ to cup his cheek and draw him near for **another** chaste kiss, then hummed low in my throat, before I’d **attempted** an answer, “It’s something we’ve _done_ … a game we’ve **played** … and a _promise_ , since before we **_met_** you … You’ve _taken_ something **_from_** him, Harry …” I explained with a croon, “… and I don’t think he **_will_** forgive you _for_ it … he’s **_never_** had a possession of _his_ own … **_all_** his own … _aside_ from me … and now he doesn’t **_even_** have me.”

It was a _difficult_ sentiment to depart with and I’d been **_steeped_** with sorrow as I’d said it, but before then, I’d never seen **such** a bewildered stare in Harry’s _brilliant_ eyes.

He was **_almost_** taken aback, almost _saddened_ – and I’d _known_ I made him understand. Somehow, I’d made him **_get_** what I was trying to belay.

“No **_boy_** can possess a **_girl_** … You’re flesh and _bone_ , not a _toy_ … not a **_thing_** …” Harry insisted, drawing me in for _another_ simple kiss.

And I had **faded** into the sensations he’d invoked in me. I’d run from them for _too_ long and my bodice was **finally** screaming for the end to be _there_ – **_then_**.

“Harry, you’ve _never_ had a sibling … So how can you be so **_sure_** of what it entails?” I’d argued, **despite** the _want_ of my body to **_give_** in, my _heart_ had still **rebelled**.

Harry had kissed me _again_ and stroked a thumb over my cheek in a **softness** that rippled through every part of me.

“I may _not_ know about siblings, but I **_do_** know about _love_ … and I know about **hearts** and _bodies_ …” he described, “And no one should _mark_ their purported **_love_** the way **_he’s_** marked you …”

Those words have _haunted_ me, since he **spoke** them.

Because _afterwards_ , when the talking was **over** , he’d shown me what it felt like to **_have_** a lover. _To make love_. To participate in activities that **_weren’t_** fucking. But _loving_ … and **_exquisite_**.

He’d pressed me _open_ in an easing sprawl and slid the tip of his rigid length up to my entrance and **pushed** in. I remember how much distinctively larger he was, when **_swollen_** , than my Ron, had been, between his thighs. I can **still** close my eyes and feel the push and pull of his limbs and **_hear_** the sweet lull of his moans through the **heated** air.

I’d had to _stretch_ to accommodate the girth of him and I’d felt **guilt** for comparing his erection to Ron’s. Because it was _another_ way that Ron was **inadequate** – and I’d known if he **_knew_** , that he’d **_never_** be able to live it down.

I remember the rush of my _blood_ and the **cries** I’d made for Harry when he’d _finished_ in me, before he’d reached down and **tenderly** circled my clitoris until I, too, released the **_tightened_** coil inside.

Harry had been a **_tender_** lover … sweet and **_kind_** … _thoughtful_ – and everything that Ron could **_never_** be.

And **_that_** was the _problem_.

I’d grown **used** to Ron **_and_** his punishments, doled out in the _form_ of intercourse. I’d missed the **frustrations** he’d whisper about in the _concave_ , where my _neck_ met my shoulder. And I’d missed the light **snores** that would seep from his _lips_ when he curled around me and **slept** … I **_even_** missed his crankiness when he’d wake to find that I had **_hogged_** all of the blankets on the bed.

I’d just missed **_him_**.

And had been **_forced_** to watch him with Lavender Brown for **_weeks_** , which was altogether, unnerving. Because I could see that she now maneuvered through the hallways, painted in his bruises, well hidden underneath her _clothes_ – but I knew them **_well_**.

I had been able to **_tell_** in the way she _sashayed_ her hips, trying to step **without** the twinge of ache that would **shoot** between her thighs … and been able to see in the way she’d be pressed to the nearest wall in a **_dime’s_** notice by Ron, just because I’d **_rounded_** a corner on Harry’s arm and he’d _needed_ the pent-up **aggravations** – and **_fury_** – to leave him with all **_hastiness_**.

And when he **_finally_** broke it off with Lavender – while _unconscious_ in the hospital wing – I’d thought that **perhaps** we’d finally be able to take up where we left off.

Because I’d _finally_ had the last bit of lavished attention that I could **take** from Harry – and simultaneously _broken_ things off with him, too.

Harry had looked at me with this **knowing** pierce of his green eyes and he hadn’t had to accuse me of anything, verbally, for me to know that he silently, understood what I was _doing_ – and **_why_**.

But **_nothing_** worked out the way it was **_supposed_** to be.

Because at the _year’s_ end, Dumbledore was **_dead_** , and Ron and Hermione had _latched_ on to each other.

The bushy-haired, female (his eyes had avoided mine when I’d brought up, all those years before) had well and **_actually_** snatched him **_up_**.

Ron hadn’t been _speaking_ to me _anyway_ – I’d tried **countless** endeavors before the year’s end, **_trying_** to get him _alone_ to speak … but he’d always found **_ways_** to avoid me.

And I’d _finally_ caved and let him **_have_** Hermione.

Let him _scatter_ my heart to bits.

I’d hated that he captured **_my_** heart when we were children and I hadn’t **_asked_** him to, only to cast it aside without looking **_back_** as an adult.

It had been _cruel_ – and **_unkind_**.

And not unlike his **_previous_** actions … so it **_shouldn’t_** have surprised me.

He’d always been so damned _jealous_ and **_callous_**.

But his **_dating_** Hermione – **_hurt_**. Because Lavender he’d _barely_ known … but Hermione **_meant_** something. She’d been practically part of the _family_ in Mum’s eyes for **_years_**. And to see the _delight_ when he’d come home with Hermione on his **arm** – had been **_sickening_**.

I’d spent my **summer** in my room.

 ** _Far_** away from _them_.

Because I’d known they were going to go _off_ on their grand adventure and Ron would have **all** the time in the world to be with **_his_** Hermione … to be **_inside_** of her – taking out his _frustrations_ on her … and I’d have **_no one_**.

Be _with_ no one …

The night before they _left_ on their journey – the night before the **wedding** – I’d taken it upon myself to **_sneak_** into Harry’s bed, with a bottle of Firewhisky and a _forlorn_ expression in my sapphire eyes. And I’d **known** by the way he _looked_ at me … he wouldn’t be _able_ to resist, **_one_** more night, _together_.

It wasn’t strictly-speaking, the same as one last **frenzy** of lust and catapulting _urgency_ with Ron would have been, but he _was_ Harry – and he was **_something_**.

 ** _Something_** better than **_nothing_** , I’d thought.

We’d **_both_** drank until our bellies burned with the _stuff_ and the haziness had come over my eyes, blurred my vision enough to make me see what I wanted to see – and I think he **_knew_** what I wanted.

What I was **_asking_** for, from **him**.

I’d **_never_** taken to Harry’s bed, when he was _heavy_ with intoxication. I’d never even **_seen_** what a drunk Harry, looked like, _before_ then. But I had hoped he’d be **_sloppy_** enough to _replicate_ Ron, maybe even just a **_little_** bit.

And I’d known in the **moment** that it was _sick_ – and it was **_twisted_** – but I was **_afraid_** for my big brother – and I was afraid to **_lose_** him, so I was _clinging_ on to **_something_**.

I hadn’t **_wanted_** to lose him.

I had only wished we **_weren’t_** in a fight that seemed **_endless_** , before he’d go _off_ to the war. But I hadn’t been able to _change_ it. I’d **_known_** that – I’d **_tried_** …

So, I’d watched as Harry took _more_ and **more** of the drink into his **_body_**. Indulged in more and more of the **bitter** , **_fiery_** liquid, until he was **half** out of his mind _with_ it and I’d known if I was ever gonna be able to **compel** him, that **_that_** would be the one and _only_ time I’d find myself **able** to.

So, I’d **_mussed_** up the _courage,_ and **_tried_**.

I’d _crawled_ onto his lap, threaded my fingers through his **tousled** messy hair and pleaded with him, “ _Please_ , Harry …” I’d breathed, “… You **_must_** have frustrations … **_all_** men have frustrations … let me have **_yours_** …” I remember how I’d slurred against his ear … how he’d _prickled_ with his needs and **fought** with his _compulsions_ , because he was the ‘ _Savior’_ he was the ‘ _Chosen’_ one … it didn’t matter that he was being **_crushed_** under the **_enormous_** weight of it all … heroes didn’t _maim_ – didn’t **_mark_** – and they didn’t let those **_curbed_** frustrations _show_ …

But I’d **_known_** they existed … so I’d asked him _anyway_.

“ _Gin_ …” he’d wavered in his voice and _hissed_ against my hair, because I’d begun to **palm** him through his slacks.

“You don’t **_have_** to be so _perfect_ with me, Harry … You **_know_** what I can _withstand_ … you’ve _seen_ it with your own **_eyes_** … and I _ache_ for it … Harry … _please_ … **_indulge_** me …” I’m not **proud** of how I **_broke_** him. Less proud of how I’d managed to _wiggle_ my way into his heart only to **_stamp_** out the flame between us, once it’d previously _ignited_ …

But he was so **_beautiful_** in that moment … And I didn’t see _any_ of his titles or his **_strengths_**. I saw a **_boy_** … masquerading as a **_man_** … and I had wanted him to **_embrace_** it … embrace what Ron **_used_** to give so _willingly_ …

“ ** _Fuck_** …” he’d croaked out that _dirty_ , **_filthy_** word when my fingers had _snaked_ around his prick, squeezed the **tumid** bulge in little nudges.

“ _Please_ … Harry …” Like a siren under the sea waves, I’d finally _fractured_ the pieces of him I’d **_intended_** to. I’d practically felt them _shatter_ in my grip.

He’d **growled** then, like a _beast_ , and bit my lips with his teeth. I’d felt them **bleed** and I’d moaned for him. Crashed down against the **sheets** where he tackled me, wrangled me, and _ripped_ open my shirt. I’d felt him **_shred_** the fabric like it was no more than **flimsy** paper. It was a side of him I’d _never_ known – but it had absolutely **_invigorated_** me.

I’d **needed** that rough, _coarseness_ for almost nine months and even if it **_wasn’t_** Ron – that no longer had **mattered** to my **_eager_** bodice.

I’d tasted Harry’s cherry-red lips, **_licked_** the alcohol from the **buds** , and canted my hips up to greet the _undeniably_ , raging tent in his slacks. Eyes _hooded_ with lust, I’d shredded his shirt and yanked **_open_** his trousers, freeing the _monster_ that was **_nestled_** under the layers.

I remember how I _goaded_ him, thoroughly **egging** him on as he sucked and **_bit_** bruises into my shoulders, _breasts_ , and **neck**. Even his touch had turned **rough** and _frenetic_ , and I wanted it **_all_** – his _untamedness_ , the darkest pieces of **_Voldemort_** that lingered in his soul. I remembered _Tom_ well. I remembered the way he’d **rile** me into a stupor of _anxious_ lusts and hate-filled **needs**. And I’d **known** that touch of darkness was _somewhere_ in Harry, too.

It **_lived_** in his veins and **_sang_** to me in his eyes.

Perhaps the _darkness_ in Harry, is what had **_latched_** me to him in the _first_ place. Because it wasn’t till **_after_** Tom – that I’d first been drawn toward **_Harry’s_** elusiveness. And it was **Ron** that had enticed me _over_ toward the _darker_ side in life … in **sex** … in **_fucking_** … but _Tom_ that had stroked and **sought** it out in my soul; forever **_ruining_** me with it.

I’d wanted to _revel_ in what he was _doing_ to me – what I’d **driven** him to.

And I’d known (from Harry’s **_own_** mouth one of the nights we’d **_previously_** been together) that any _unrestrained_ behavior from his own frame, had been a **fear** of his – a very **_real_** fear – but I hadn’t _found_ it in myself to quite care in **that** moment, if it **_spiraled_** out of **_control_**.

“ _Rougher_ …” I’d goaded, “… I want to be **crippled** from your **_aggravations_** tomorrow, Harry …” All I’d needed, was to coax and he’d responded with a _clash_ of his lips down on my own. He’d made a **fist** into the sheets for leverage and _slammed_ in quick, _jerky_ humps up into my _dripping_ cunt.

I’d **_dreamed_** of Harry’s darkness, but never known just **_how_** dark his darkest pieces _pertained_ to be. The **hurt** was **_excruciating_** – insurmountable to **_anything_** Ron had _ever_ inflicted on me – and at times, I’d thought I might pass **_out_** from the pure _force_ of his **_might_**!

Harry had _totally_ surrendered himself to my **_persuasions_** and the inebriation … his teeth found my _skin_ in places Ron had **_never_** thought to bite. Harry’s control _waned_ and his strength only seemed to **_heighten_**.

“You **_like_** that …? _Huh_? You little fucking **_minx_** … spreading your _legs_ for your **_brother_** … casting me aside like I’m **_nothing_** …” his frustrations came out in husk **_whispers_**. **_Brutal_** whispers.

I’d **shivered** and swallowed down the _connotations_ , but we had been well **past** apologizes.

“ _Yeah_ … Let it **_out_** , Harry … let it **_all_** out …” I’d whined against his _ear_ , scraped my **nails** down his back to lesson his _threshold_ of control.

I will **always** swear that I _saw_ Voldemort for a **flicker** in his eyes, _then_. He’d flashed this **_contorted_** smile at me and bit my _neck_ until he drew blood.

I’d _charmed_ his bed to keep the **noises** contained, and it was a **_wonder_** that it’d worked … because I’d **_screamed_** so loud, I was practically **_positive_** that the entire house would _hear_ me. But they **hadn’t**.

No **_one_** had _come_ – only the dark corners of that **_bedroom_** had seen and heard what Harry had _done_ to me – the pure **_toxicity_** that was the _binding_ of our flesh.

I’d **_tore_** and _bled_ and _screamed_ for him until I’d **lost** my voice … and I’d _seen_ in those eyes, that he’d **_reveled_** in it. Same as **_Ron_** once had.

And over the **course** of that night, I lost **count** of how many times he **_came_** for me – and berated me into the **hull** of that mattress, until we’d **_both_** passed out from exhaustion and _effects_ of the Firewhisky.

It’d been the _first_ time in **_nine_** months that my hunger for pain and fucking – had been **_sated_**. And I’d _distinctly_ been made aware – by the _constant_ mitigation of my thoughts – that Ron had **_forever_** ruined me, for anything _other_ than **brutality**.

I can **still** see the unseemly panic and apprehension that had _greeted_ me when I first cracked opened my eyes that **following** morning.

Harry’s eyes had been dark-ringed, _sprouts_ of hair all stuck-up on end, and a gape to his mouth, that **_perfectly_** displayed his **_every_** emotion. He’d woken with his _clothes_ in tatters, **skin** on display – and _worst_ of all, very **little** recollection of our shared night.

But … the _abrasions_ and bruises that had **scoured** my ivory freckled skin, had painted a **_ghastly_** picture all their own.

Harry’s eyes had **_leaked_** with tears, that he’d **flicked** away with a _few_ of his fingers, all while he’d _shaken_ his head in disbelief, at what I’d **coaxed** from him.

At what I’d **_wanted_** … and **convinced** him to _partake_ in …

“Gin … **Fuck** … I’m _sorry_ …” he’d apologized, like _sweet_ , **heroic** , Harry the **_hero_** , was always _supposed_ to do, and I’d been **ashamed** , but not because he **_saw_** me … but because he saw me and was _disgusted_ … **_damaged_** by me … and what he’d **_seen_** …

“Don’t **apologize** … I _needed_ it, Harry … I needed **_this_** …” I’d confessed and that had been **_all_** he needed to _hear_ , in order to pick _himself_ out of the bed, gather a **fresh** set of clothes, and _flee_ the room with a **_slammed_** door.

I’d _sobbed_ , once alone, and **sheltered** my eyes from the **light** in the room. I’d cried, because I’d **_known_** he couldn’t accept me … and had **hated** that I’d been so _enthralled_ and in **love** with his touch, the **_previous_** night … No … not his _touch_ … his **brutality** … his **_beauty_** … the _depravities_ and **_depths_** of **darkness** he’s capable of … but I’d _also_ known, that he would **_never_** share it with me again.

The pain _didn’t_ leave my _bones_ , my **gait** … my _muscles_ and **skin** for **_three_** whole weeks. It was the _longest_ I’d ever felt pain from a **single** encounter. – And I _hated_ that I craved it all again the second that the last of the pain had **ebbed** away.

It was a **_betrayal_** of Ron … and by _that_ point there were so **_many_** tallied-up betrayals … yet _another_ being added to the list felt like an **_eventuality_** … rather than an _abnormality_ … and I’d **_hated_** that …

I didn’t **_like_** hurting Ron … I’d **_never_** liked that …

Ron had **_started_** to give me little **_looks_** of approval, _soon_ after I’d broken it _off_ with Harry, but that morning … after I _limped_ down the stairs and tried to **hide** my body under layers of clothes … Ron’s eyes had turned _insidious_ and **_lethal_** … and I’d not been **_able_** to meet the dark things again, for the **_rest_** of that day …

I didn’t see Ron, or Harry **_again_** for almost a year.

Not until they _stumbled_ their **battered** , tired frames into the **hideaway** headquarters for Dumbledore’s Army _within_ Hogwarts’s walls.

For **_all_** that time, I’d driven myself almost **_mad_** , letting the Carrows’ _use_ my skin for **sinister** , _torturous_ purposes, whenever they **saw** fit. Because even if it wasn’t **sexual** pain … _pain_ was **_pain_** …

Hearing the **little** speckles of news … none of which ever seemed to even **remotely** have information of _value_ on Harry or his friends … and being forced to **return** to nights alone … without an _iota_ of touch … well, I’d not **lasted** long …

I’ll always be _disgusted_ with my **own** pitfalls, but none-so-much as when I’d **provoked** one of the Slytherin boys _early_ on in the school year. He’d taken a **liking** to my _unnatural_ proclivities and **_I_** to **his**.

I didn’t _care_ to learn **his** name, and it had only gone on for a **month** , before the wracking _guilt_ had started to consume me and I’d **_ebbed_** away from him.

Ron’s reappearance had been met with **agony** , as his time away had changed him. Hermione had **_perished_** under the cruel touch of Bellatrix Lestrange in Malfoy Manner, they’d **_both_** recounted to those of us _gathered_ , tearfully, about how they’d **buried** her with _Dobby_ at Shell Cottage.

And though I’d _despised_ the witch that had taken Ron’s **heart** … I’ve _seen_ what her **_demise_** had ate in him. Some part that I don’t rightly **understand** … because I’d never **_known_** how close he became to her, through their **friendship** … and how much _closer_ he’d apparently become with her in the nine months that he’d been **away** with the pair of them.

 _Still_ , I’d ached in my **_soul_** without Ron for such an _expansive_ period of time – though there hadn’t been **_time_** for me to _think_ on it.

And, by the time the **_final_** battle had commenced, only to leave a trail of _carnage_ and death in and around Hogwarts, **_including_** our brother Fred … I’d been filled with sorrow – and **_missed_** the touch of my brother ... I’d **_missed_** Ron, terribly.

But … his _soul_ had been splintered in the **time** since I’d last seen him.

The first time I’d **_managed_** to get him alone, was **_after_** Fred’s funeral … when the family had been in _mourning_ , lingering in separate **sects** all around The Burrow.

That was a _week_ ago, now … and I’d **_reached_** for him.

Because **despite** his jealousy … his _possessiveness_ … I will **always** be his … and he will **_always_** be mine … I _have_ to believe that, somewhere **deep** in my soul.

Or _else_ … what is it that we **have**? Because he no _longer_ has Hermione … someone I didn’t **_even_** know mattered so _much_ to his **_heart_** …

I’d crept up into the _cramped_ bedroom that was his and Percy’s once. And I’d lingered **near** until I could practically _breathe_ on his skin.

His blue eyes had been **trained** out the windowpane, this _hollowness_ in his stance – in his **_slouched_** shoulders.

I’d reached up with a _trace_ of my fingers and brushed the side of his arm, near where his checker-patterned short sleeved shirt, ended and he’d _shivered_ , goosebumps sporting on his arm-flesh.

“Come to _brag_ about how you snogged my **_best_** friend? Just wanna _rub_ it in, don’t you?” there had been traces of _ire_ in his voice – something **trembly** and cold.

I’d **_shivered_** down my spine, tears glistened in my hazel eyes.

“I never **_meant_** to do that, Ron … The last thing I’d _ever_ wanted was to **hurt** you,” I had breathed in _close_ to his ear and let my nose **push** into his neck.

His eyes had _wavered_ then, and he’d **turned** to face me. I had seen the **_dark_** circles there … seen this _wounding_ agony up-close that I didn’t know _quite_ how to speak about …

“You **_promised_** you were mine. Do you **remember** that? _Huh_ , Gin?” he’d spat, **_fierce_** energy in his eyes, and I’d **flinched** , “Each other’s _first_ , **last** , _only_ , **_forever_** …”

I’d squeaked as he’d grabbed around my middle and **slammed** me to the wall and I’d felt the pain of it **beat** in my bones – and closed my eyes to **_steady_** myself.

“I _remember_ … I remember **_everything_** , Ron …” I’d told him then, with a _somberness_ that couldn’t be spared.

Our eyes had met and his **hands** had clenched down on my sides, harshly.

“You **_kissed_** him, Gin! Right in _front_ of me!” his voice had risen and eyes flared with sparks.

And I’d choked out a sob, because the **pain** in my waist where he clutched so, so tight was starting to burn and _ache_ , but I didn’t seek to **run** away, because I _wanted_ it … I **needed** his punishment … after he’d spent so **long** avoiding it … avoiding **_that_** moment …

“He **_kissed_** me … I’d _never_ … not before he kissed me …” I’d pleaded for him to see it in my eyes. And I _think_ he did.

“You _fucked_ him, Gin … You let him **_inside_** of you … let him _touch_ you **_there_** … you were **supposed** to _only_ be **_mine_**!” he’d growled, “ ** _I_** am your _master_!”

I had levered my head and _stolen_ a glimpse into his eyes, “I only _let_ him **fuck** me, because _you_ fucked **_her_**! **_Lavender_**! In front of **_everyone_**!” I’d hissed back in a vile admittance, and his eyes turned anguished, “I came to _explain_ what Harry had **done** … I’d came to _tell_ you it was **_nothing_** , but you already had your cock, balls-deep **_inside_** of Lavender- ** _fucking_** -Brown!”

His breath came out in a _pant_ and his dangerous eyes, turned to steel. “Because **he’d** already **_tainted_** you – already _fucke_ d- _up_ what was **_only_** mine … he took you _away_ from **me**! You were the **_one_** thing I had! The one **_fucking_** thing in all this _fucking_ world!” Ron had then, belted out and I had _quivered_ with factoids of **_his_** truth.

“So, I’m not **_good_** enough for you now? Is **_that_** it?! Is that _why_ you choose Hermione—”

He’d forced his lips to mine, _yanked_ me off my feet and collided my **spine** with the wall. It had felt _bad_ – and **_good_** – and like _bliss_ and **_hell_** … all entwined into _one_ sinuous thing.

And I still don’t know **_how_** to describe it better than that …

Because Ron had turned _animalistic_ on me. Shredded my _clothes_ down to tatters, pushed the **bulk** of his tumid manhood right _up_ inside of me. And _stretched_ me to _accommodate_ him in the most _sadistically_ agonizing way.

Being **starved** and on the run had done _wonders_ to his body. His _muscles_ had gained **_curves_** , his pure strength had **_doubled_** and his masculinity had _rounded_ out, trimming away whatever baby-fat had still been _clung_ to his bones. Even his **_scent_** had _changed **–**_ **_matured_** – to one of _muskiness,_ **cedar** _,_ and **_sweat_**.

“Don’t you **_ever_** talk about _her_ … She pulled me **_through_** … when you weren’t _there_ to fucking do it … don’t you **_ever_** say her _name_ to **_me_** …” he’d yanked my hair and **_ripped_** until I’d screamed out my compliance, right _then_ and **_there_** against the wall.

I’d **_sobbed_** in elation at finally being his, again, and I’d felt my **_insides_** constrict in rebellion against Hermione ever meaning as _much_ to him as **_me_** …

But _Ron_ … **_my_** Ron … has **never** been the _forgiving_ type. Never been much _more_ than selfish and I should have **seen** that better – **_clearer_** – but I hadn’t through my _cloud_ of esteem towards him, that has been there since I can **remember**.

“ ** _Ron_** –” I’d gasped, but had been **_immediately_** silenced by the plague of his lips on mine.

He’d bit my bottom _pout_ until it bled, lapped at the iron-tasting liquid with **little** flicks of his tongue and grunted, with _every_ slam and **_take_** of his hips **_speared_** into mine.

Electricity was pouring _through_ his skin and into mine in **heavy** synapses and I could barely breathe.

“I will **_never_** get the _filthy_ traces of **_him_** off of you … I can fuck you a **thousand** times and never get **_him_** off of you!” Ron had dished out his frustration in _sporadic_ growls and teeming admittances – and I’d all but **_cried_** for him against that wall.

Let him _tear_ and **taste** me, at will. Let him **_ravage_** and scold my body until it was _battered_ and **useless** in his arms.

And he’d tried **_everything_** to tear me apart … sought out my _soul_ in the darkest reaches of my brain and claimed it, again and again, with ferocity and insanity.

Hermione’s **death** had broken him and I’d **_known_** it most in that moment … and in the moments that **followed**.

When we’d **_somehow_** made it onto his bed, and he’d _taken_ , unapologetically, until I was bruised and **bloodied** at his pleasure. I reveled in the feel of his seed, marking me once again, between my thighs. I could feel him _painting_ me with it – inside and out – and I knew there was something deeper in his eyes – something he **_wasn’t_** saying …

There **still** is.

Because he’d **_pulled_** away, when he was done. Left me **lying** there – _sprawled_ in **angles** on his bed – thoroughly **_used_** and spent … but **still** feeling only half fulfilled.

Like he’d **_held_** something back.

And I feel it **_now_**.

As I stand _outside_ the precipice of his **door**. And I ponder if I should just **_leave_** him be.

Because **_I’ve_** caused the _rapture_ of his soul.

It started when I gave him that **_first_** promise, as a _little girl_ whom **_loved_** her big brother. Then felt those _little_ impulses, towards Harry and **_his_** touches … then opened into an **uncontrollable** fire when I’d let _those_ emotions in … which then **shoved** Ron into the arms of _other_ girls, owing to the **complete** fracture and breakage of Ron’s _soul_ , because he’s now **_lost_** Hermione – and **_none_** of it would have happened if I’d **_just_** been faithful – just **_kept_** my promise to Ron in the _first_ place.

 ** _I’m_** the **_poison_**. I’m the thing that **_ruined_** him … and I’ve _always_ been the **_poison_** …

The thing that **_used_** to hold his _pieces_ together with _paste_ and **_promises_** … but I’ve _failed_ in a **big** way … I don’t think there **_is_** a button I can _push_ … or a **line** I can cross that will **_unburden_** him …

Because he will **_always_** remember, with _jealousy_ , that I couldn’t **_keep_** my promises.

That I couldn’t keep his **_heart_** safe.

I’ve _bled_ for him … loved and **_burned_** for him … but it doesn’t **mend** what I’ve sought, from **_Harry_** … and that’s **_my_** cross to bear … **_my_** heart’s _burden_.

And _Hermione_ is **_his_** …

Since _last_ week, he’s **_avoided_** me, _again_. Hasn’t _tried_ to **_touch_** me again … hasn’t _climbed_ into my bed, despite how I’ve **_wished_** that he would …

He’s just been **_eerily_** quiet … and **_still_**.

He’ll go and **_convalesce_** by the fire, or eat a _few_ stingy bites of _food_ … shutting out **_everyone_** , same as _George_ does.

And I can **_see_** the worry-lines etched into Mum’s forehead, but **_she_** doesn’t **understand** … not like ** _I_** do. No one can _understand_ … except, **_perhaps_** , Harry …

Harry, too, has been **distant** while staying _under_ this roof. He’s avoided **Firewhisky** , and _me_. **_especially me_**. But Harry doesn’t **speak** about the war – to _anyone_ – and he doesn’t **unburden** his soul, with love or **_kisses_** with anyone of the **female** persuasion … he seems to have **_isolated_** himself. And I can’t help but **feel** that may be **_my_** fault, too. Because of the _darkness_ I spurned-up in him **_that_** night. The _brutality_ he’d _marred_ and **smeared** into my skin, with only a **_little_** persuasion …

But I cannot **continue** to _live_ in this house, with _three_ ghosts …

**_George, Harry, and Ron._ **

They are just ghosts … **reflections** of their pasts.

 **Torn** by their _experiences_ – by their **losses** – and **two** of them, torn by **_me_**.

I can **never** make reparations to _Harry_ , because he is **_not_** mine – he’s **_never_** been mine – but I’ve decided I can continue to **try** , with Ron. _Even_ if he claims a thousand fucks will not **cleanse** Harry’s touch from my skin … well, then I will **_lay_** with him a **thousand** and **_one_** …

And I **realize** my _decision_ is made – **_mind_** , made up.

And I _twist_ the knob on Ron’s **door** , push my **_way_** in.

I **click** the door behind me, let the _little_ clink stabilize my heartbeats that have **foiled** out of my control.

Because I **_may_** have sullied what was once so raw and beautiful, between Ron and I, but I **_refuse_** to believe it is **forever** unamendable …

There has to be **_some_** way for me to offer him up my soul, again.

There has to be a way for him to find and seek out the pleasure and relief he once did, between my thighs. Because we made each other this way … we made each other – this – sick. And there is no denying it.

He’s a **_man_** now, filled with a _man’s_ _urges_. And as a boy, he’d been a **practical** sex addict … same as _me_ … so I figure **_that’s_** still in there. The bit of him that will **always** be hungry for the center-of-attention is **still** in there … I just have to **_find_** it …

He’s _perched_ on the side of his bed, head-bowed with a few **wisps** of his reddish-mop down **across** his eyes.

“Ron?” I whisper, in a gentle press for him to acknowledge me.

He squeezes his fingers against the bridge of his nose and lifts his head to glance over me with his blue eyes. My heart practically stills in my chest – and I go still.

“What do you want, Gin? Huh? What is it you want from me?” his voice breaks mid-way and gets this husk-sound that I have always loved in him, and I shiver, noticeably through my jumper.

I slick my tongue across the roof of my mouth, biding my time – and trying to derive a good enough answer to give him. But what can I say? What will make it better?

“I want to fix what is broken in you, Ron … What I’ve broken in you …” I whisper, in a wavering tone.

I see pain flicker in his eyes, and something like … like anger … but it quickly gives way to dismissal and he turns his swallowing eyes back away.

“You can’t, Gin. There is nothing you can say or do to fix the promises you broke … and the betrayals you made …” he snaps, bitterly.

I dare to step closer and he flinches, but makes no move to prevent me, as I settle down beside him on the edge of his mattress.

“Not even if I tell you that I never loved, Harry? That I could never love anyone the way that I love you?” I croon, with my chin laid on his shoulder.

Ron shoots me a foreboding look of warning. I know that look well, I’m very close to a punishment … and I feel chills spider up my sides.

“Not even then,” he shoots back, irritation in his glance.

I sigh and work my thumb against his peck, through his shirt, making little swirlies across his covered skin.

“What if I promise to be a good girl, and call you Master, for the rest of my days, without argument?” I remember how it used to bother him, that I wouldn’t just do as he asked … that I refused to have a ‘Master’ and be okay with it.

Something feral dances in his eyes, but he shoves it back down.

“Stop it, Gin … I don’t want to fucking play with you anymore … I don’t want your fucking lies …” he latches on to my hair and gives a little tug, twisting my head to the side.

I keen and shiver into it, letting my hand fall down from his chest, to cup and fondle the bulge in his trousers. He squirms and despite what he’s said, his cock hardens instantly for me.

He’s spurned to life – and wanting – I can taste it in the air.

“That’s not what your cock says,” I chide, “Your cocks, says that it wants to fuck … and it wants to own me again …”

I can **_see_** him ready to lose it – I know **_just_** the right buttons to push to _get_ him to **_have_** me. I know it won’t **mend** everything … but he’s **_steeped_** with frustrations. Between Mum and her nit-picking at his peckishness, and Percy all high and mighty on his high-horse, I’ve seen some **tension** building in his muscles. He **_needs_** to fuck – he needs the **give** and **_take_** of coitus and he **_needs_** it desperately.

And sure enough, he **_caves_**.

“You fucking, **_slut_**!” he growls into my _ear_ , seeking to **inflict** hurt me, but his words **_cannot_** hurt me.

 ** _Nothing_** can hurt me as _much_ as knowing that he actually _cared_ for Hermione – **_loved_** Hermione.

So, he hoists me up and **_slams_** me down on the _mattress_ , ripping open my clothes, _biting_ my breasts and using his hands to **explore** and **_grope_** further bruises **_over_** my bruises from _last_ week.

“You want to **_egg_** me on like a **little** slut? I’m gonna **_fuck_** **_you_** like one, _then_ …” he promises, and I don’t have **time** to process what he’s said, before he’s used his hand to **grasp** my wrists, and fixate my hands _up_ above my head. And he’s **_strong_** – so he **holds** me, _unfailingly_. I’m helplessly _exposed_ to him now, without wiggle-room to **touch** his skin – that I **_desperately_** crave to touch. And he fucking _knows_ it!

“ _Fuck_ … **_Ron_** …” I whine, but he’s already **torn** open my panties, _freed_ his throbbing erection and pushed up inside me, before I can so much as **_think_**.

“You’re **_so_** bloody nosy … and **_self-righteous_**! What do you _think_? **_Huh_**? You think I just _pine_ for you? You think my **_heart_** can still be **_yours_**?” he growls against my lips and **fists** the sheets, to get a **better** angle to fuck me into the bed.

Our thighs slam **_so_** hard, that I am made _clumsy_ by it. And I rattle and **shake** under him, **_compulsively_** , giving him **_everything_** that I have.

If he _needs_ to see me **wrecked** and _destroyed_ – if **_that’s_** what it’s gonna _take_ … then I decide in this **moment** , that I’ll **_give_** that to him – and little **tears** form in my eyes, as I _glance_ up into his.

“I’m _sorry_ , Ron … I’m **_so_** sorry …” I whimper as he fucks his hips with _such_ a **force** , that I feel my bones **_crack_** and I fear he’s _fracturing_ my bones – but I **_let it in_**. I let the _pain_ in … I let **_his_** pain in.

“She was carrying my **_child_** … _that’s_ what I **_mourn_** for, Gin … My unborn **_child_** … not the _girl_ I put it in … but the **innocent** little life **_I_** lost .. because **_you_** threw me aside … because **_you_** wouldn’t **_have_** me when I **needed** you most …” Ron finally tells me **his** truth of _things_ and I feel like my _heart_ might explode … I feel like my **_skin_** is _afire_.

Hermione was **_pregnant_**?

It doesn’t **_register_** at first. How _can_ it? I am **spiraling** with my mind trying to _wrap_ around the **actuality** of a child … a _little_ unborn **_baby_** … And I feel my _heart_ crack open to **meld** with Ron’s.

“Oh … Baby … I didn’t _know_ …”

How **_could_** I have _known_?

“You’re the **_only_** fucking _thing_ I’ve ever been in **love** with … the only **_god-damned_** thing! And you _broke_ me, Gin! **_Alright_**?! You bloody fucking **_broke_** me and you made me _less_ than Harry … **_again_** … I’ve _never_ compared to my **_brothers_** … or to _Harry_ - ** _fucking_** - _Potter_ … and I thought that **you** … that **_you_** of all fucking **people** in this _fucking_ world … that you **_loved_** me **_more_** … that you gave a **fuck** about **_me_** … I thought you gave me your **_whole_** bloody _soul_ that night … that night when we **laid** like Mum and Dad, do … before it became **_this_** … this **_sickness_** … this _pain_ and **hurt** when we **_screw_** … and I thought I **_mattered_** to you … more than **_anything_** … _anyone_ … you’d **_never_** betray me … never **bloody-well** leave me … **_Fuck_**!” he shouts and I feel him tense, shudder, and cry out these heart wrenching sobs, that threaten to obliterate and shatter whatever is left of my soul, by this point.

Because the pain he’s giving me is so much more than I can bear …

And it’s no wonder that he’s broken and he’s cracked under the ever-mounting pressure of it all … and I don’t know **_how_** to fix it … I know how to fix it less **_now_** , than I did when I came into his bedroom **_five_** minutes ago …

He’s _punishing_ me for my **betrayals** with every _punch_ and twist of his _hips_ and I thrash, bodily, with every **_crack_** of my bones and _twinge_ of my muscles.

Because he **_might_** break me _this_ time … he might actually **_kill_** me with his _rage_ and his **_emotions_** and I deserve it … because I’ve been so icy about Hermione … and I’ve been so cruel in my reaction to his **_mourning_** …

And I **_can’t_** take it back … I can’t take **_any_** of my _countless_ treacheries back … and I **_sorely_** wish that I could … because this **_hurt_** is never _going_ to go away … it will **_kill_** me before it _does_ …

And I’m **_choking_** and I can’t **_breathe_** – and it’s all **_so_** much … it’s all so, **_so much_** …

But his grip is **loosening** on my wrists and each one of his sobs make this _terrible_ wrenching sensation **deep** in my heart – and I _wriggle_ one of my hands _free_ in order to hold him, like he’s a **_child_** … like I **wish** that I had when we **_were_** children … and **_been_** gentle … and I just **_can’t_** … because of this **_pain_** …

“ _Ron_ … you’re **_not_** lesser than … you’re _not_ … I **_promise_** …” I manage to **croak** out, but I don’t even _know_ if he can **hear** me over his **continued** gasping-sobs, that _descend_ into shudders, every few seconds.

“I am … I _bloody_ fucking am …” he gasps out and I **_clutch_** him tighter.

My insides are **screaming** for me to fix him … I **_need_** to repair him … but I **_can’t_** … there is **_nothing_** in the **world** that can stave off the **loss** of a child … I know that _because_ I’ve seen it … in Mum’s eyes … whenever someone **_mentions_** Fred …

“No … that’s **not** … it’s not **_true_** … Ron … You’ve **_never_** been second to him … to **_anyone_** … you’re _first_ in my eyes … you’re the one I **_want_** … and _yeah_ … maybe I **_fucked_** it all up … maybe I let _Harry_ touch me … _fuck_ me … but I … I **_always_** wanted to come _back_ to you … I’m **_here_** with **_you_** … right _fucking_ now … and that _has_ to count for **_something_** … it has to count for **_everything_** … _okay_? Because … **_because_** … I promised you would be my **_first_** … and my **_last_** … and you **_will_** be … I won’t **_touch_** anyone else … no one _else_ , again … and I don’t **_care_** if everyone _knows_ … let them **_all_** know …” I sob out in a spiel of all my **guilt** and all my _pain_ … and I **_feel_** him connecting to it. I can feel him **_wanting_** to latch _on_ to me, like he always had **_before_** …

“ _Gin_ …” he whines, “… we **_can’t_** …” he grunts. And I know exactly what he **means** , but finding out he lost **_a_** **_child_** … its broke whatever _dignity_ I still tried to **_have_**. It broke my shame – my need for secrecy – it broke **_everything_**.

**_And I don’t care._ **

I don’t **_care_** that everyone will look at me the way that Harry looked at me, when he saw those bruises painting my flesh – like a wounded **_animal_** by the side of the road that should be _pitied_ and **coddled** … Everyone … our brothers, our _family_ … most of all **_Harry_** … all deserve to know that Ron **matters** most to me … that **_I_** will get him **_through_** … that this is what we **_both_** need to survive a world of **pain** and _death_ and **_loss_** …

“You said ‘ _she’_ pulled you **through** …” I breathe against his lips and he makes a **_tortured_** sound in his throat, “and **maybe** she _did_ … but **_I’m_** here **_now_** … I’m warm and _real_ … and **_yours_** , Ron … I’ve always **_been_** yours … and I’ll **give** you a **_family_** … I’ll give you a **_home_** where you’re the **_master_** and _I’m_ your **_possession_** … your _wife_ and you don’t **_have_** to be _jealous_ anymore … because there will **_be_** no one above _you_ … just like we said when we were **young** … **_remember_**? Do you _remember_ what you told me?” I beckon with my tone, **willing** him to remember.

He _shivers_ and lowers his hands, releasing my other wrist in order to pinch and tweak at my sides, up to **my** waist, until I make **_little_** noises of **contentment** for him.

“ ** _Stop it_** … Gin … you’re not being _fair_ …” he groans.

I cup his **cheeks** and make him **_look_** into my eyes, “You’d called me your **_wife_** … said **eventually** if we were **_only_** one another’s … if we keep _laying_ as we lay and you kept _possessing_ me, as you **_still_** possess me … that **eventually** that would make _me_ your wife and **_you_** my husband …”

I remember the simplicity in that **_childhood_** moment. There were no _lies_ or secrets. Nothing but a brother and a sister that _truly_ , **madly** , **_deeply_** , _loved_ each other … and I want **_that back_**.

I’m **_always_** gonna want _that_ to be just **_that_** …

He huffs and _bites_ a wound into my **shoulder** , from his **frustration** at my pressing, a few of his _tears_ fall down onto my skin and I **barely** whimper.

Pain like **_bites_** hurts so _little_ now … especially after the **thrashing** his hips **_just_** gave me.

I’ll be **bruised** for a month …

“Mum’ll _disown_ us …” he mumbles against my skin and bites his **nails** into my hips.

I suck in a **gallon** of air.

“She _sees_ how you’re **_hurting_** … she’ll see how **I’m** pulling you **through** … and she **_won’t_** … she won’t **hate** us for it …” I promise him. And I know Mum enough to know that she **won’t** lose _another_ child … no matter what we’ve **become** in the wake of tragedy, she’ll **_never_** turn her _back_ on any of us again, not like she did Percy.

He’s quiet for a long time and I think he’s **_detached_** for a minute … that is, until he _finally_ talks again, “ ** _Why_** do you _want_ this, Gin? Why did you **_ever_** want this?” he asks and I’m _taken_ off guard, furrowing my **brow** in thought, because I don’t _understand_ what he means.

He sees my _confusion_ and rolls his eyes, scratching his head with one of his **hands** , and **reiterates** the questions, “Why do you **_like_** being mine **so** much? When I **_damage_** you …? Fucking **_destroy_** you …?” he shivers, “Is it **_because_** I _ruined_ you, Gin …? Have I wrecked you **_so_** badly that you’ve **finally** cracked?”

I worry at my lip with my teeth, **_tasting_** the bit of blood that’s made a scab over the flesh wound he’s bitten there. I see his eyes drawn to it, and his thumb brushes over the wound, idly. And I **perceive** a hint of **guilt** sheltering in his eyes.

“You haven’t **_ruined_** me, Ron,” I insist, but deep down I _know_ he **has**. He did that as a **_boy_** without **_even_** realizing it. And maybe I **_let_** him … but that’s **_all_** in the _past_ now. What’s _done_ is **_done_** … and I can’t take _away_ my **insatiable** need for _pain_ and **fucking** , over _slowness_ and **_lovemaking_**.

I **_need_** , what hard curves and **edges** Ron can **_pry_ - _up_** in me.

“Then why don’t **_you_** ask me to be _softer_? Hm?” his eyes connect with me, and there is a profound deepness in them that I haven’t seen before, “Like **_she_** did …” he barely whispers it and I want to **_pretend_** I didn’t hear it.

Because I start to _picture_ her … **_Hermione_**. With her _little_ laughs, and her **gentle** , loving personality, taming **_my_** Ron – taming the **_beast_** that resides in him, ready to _feed_ on pain.

Lavender was too **_naïve_** , like _me_ , to **challenge** his brutality in bed. She probably didn’t especially **_like_** it, or understand it … but she allowed it. She’d let it go on without saying anything about it.

But I _can’t_ picture Hermione **underneath** Ron, being **_brutalized_**. It wasn’t who she _was_. She was _logical_ , **smart** , and **controlling** – like **_him_**. She seemed the sort that would **insist** on something kinder than he gives _naturally_ … something **_luscious_**.

My eyes _narrow_ , as I think about what he’s said, and I **finally** relax into his hold and cup his cheek. “I didn’t _ask_ , because we’re cut from the **same** cloth, you and I. I’ve _always_ known what you **_need_** , Ron, and how you will _implode_ if you don’t have it. I was built to _withstand_ your fire and your _jealousy_ … your **_possessiveness_** … she _wasn’t_ ,” I explain in a soft croon.

He lets out a sigh and works his _jaw_ in little motions that make me adore him.

“What if … What if I don’t **_always_** need that … _anymore_ … the **_aggression_** …” he asks, “I learned how to be _softer_ … I bloody grew **_used_** to it …” he grumbles.

I lean up and _kiss_ him, in a soft, **_sensual_** manner.

“So then, _sometimes_ we can be **_gentle_** … and when you’re **_frustrated_** … when you **_need_** me the way you **_always_** have … then you can **_take_** me … I’ll make _love_ with you, Ron. If that’s what **you** want … It’s _you_ that **_I_** need … I suppose I _have_ become _twisted_ … not **_ruined_** … but _twisted_ , because of how you’ve **touched** me before … but I **_meant_** what I said, Ron … whatever you _need_ from me … it’s **_yours_**.”

He dips his head and kisses my lips, this **time** a tiny bit more forceful.

Then _pulls_ back, with a little sigh.

“If **_you’re_** to be my _wife_ … and have my **_babies_** … then I can’t be so **_rough_** with you …”

I nod my _understanding_ , and I do, understand.

If I **_swell_** and round with his offspring and he lands a thrust wrong, or slams me too hard, it could have devasting consequences. I’ve never had to think of a child before. I’ve never had to think about hurting one … but I **_do_** , in this moment and I’m _concerned_.

“Well then, you’ll _only_ be rough when I’m **_not_** pregnant,” I muse with a tiny smile on my lips.

He shivers and I feel his arms encompass me. “You **_really_** want this … don’t you? You’re going to go **_through_** with it …?” he asks and I know its his **self-confidence** talking in this moment.

He can’t withstand being hurt again and I _understand_.

 _God_ … I **_do_**.

“I’m **_really_** going through with it,” I promise.

And **_this_** time, I **_keep_** it.

Mum is shocked, at first. But I see her _ease_ into the idea of **_us_** , when she sees how much **_looser_** Ron is, because of it. How much **_happier_**. She wants what is _best_ for him, same as **_I_** do. And _Dad_ … well, he doesn’t **_comment_**. He _hides_ behind his paper and **pretends** our hand-holding and _canoodling_ on the couch is **nonexistent**. I don’t _believe_ he knows **how** to _be_ around us. So, _he_ pretends he **doesn’t** see it and **_we_** pretend, there’s nothing **_to_** see.

And our **_siblings_** … well George, is so **broken** up over Fred that he doesn’t much care what anyone does. Percy was – **_is_** – horrified about the _distinct_ number of **_rules_** we’ve broken over the many years of our _building_ relationship. And Bill and Charlie, are **barely** around, so they don’t **_really_** care to put in their two-cents at all.

And **Harry** … when we announced it, he’d given us this **_somber_** look that I didn’t care to **differentiate** from his **_normal_** ones … and I know that _somewhere_ , down _deep_ , he still can’t get over what he _knows_ occurs behind closed doors – and what I **_awakened_** in him, that **one** night … And he doesn’t **_offer-up_ **his opinion, but I know he **doesn’t** believe what we’ve done is _healthy_.

I **_do_** know **_that_** …

But, for the **first** time, in such a **_long_** time – Ron **_is_** smiling … and that’s all **_I_** need.

That’s all I **_can_** hope for.

Because from that **first** time he kissed me, I’ve been **_his_** – and that will **_never_** **_change._**


End file.
